


Discernment

by Ethereal_Red



Series: Tangled Relations [3]
Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Alien Biology, Cultural Differences, Gen, Miraluka
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-05-31 16:46:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6478045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ethereal_Red/pseuds/Ethereal_Red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's hard to describe sight to someone who can't see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [singing_hedgehog](https://archiveofourown.org/users/singing_hedgehog/gifts).



> This is kind of a companion fic to Strategic Ceasefire. The first part takes place during Chapter 1 of the Jedi Knight story, the next part during Chapter 3, and the last part during Ziost.

A long, long time ago, back when they first made contact with the Republic, the Miraluka attempted to describe what they saw with no eyes. Their attempts did nothing but raise even more questions and eventually they simply gave up.

It’s hard to describe sight to someone who can’t see.

 

\------- 

 

The Flesh Raiders are bright and volatile, the brilliant colors of pride and determination and anger permeating their bodies like a second skin.  That alone proves they’re far from the mindless beasts the Knight at the docking bay claims they are.  Simple creatures driven by pure instinct do not shine so brightly.

His thoughts are confirmed when a Flesh Raider dissipates into the Force after death, its life draining away and leaving behind only the empty husk of a lifeless body.  He watches the last traces of pain and emotion swirl into nothingness as the corpse slides off his blade ( _he’s never killed before, never killed sentient beings who die like his people do and simply vanish before him, but it’s a necessary evil and he must adapt_ ).

 

\------- 

 

Bengel Morr is pride and determination and betrayal, infused with shadows in a way not unlike the Force-sensitive Flesh Raiders.  But at the same time there are clear signs of guilt and compassion and light, flickering faintly deep inside the darkness but still  _there_ , and he’s optimistic as he watches Master Orgus take the unconscious Nautolan away.

<T7 + Jedi = did good work>

“Yeah,” he looks down at the excited chrome blob by his side.  The droid’s upbeat emotions are oddly colored but still recognizable and he can’t help but smile at the sight ( _it comes naturally now, after years of practice – with his own people he’s never needed to smile but other species require a physical representation to see and understand_ ).  “We did.”

 

\-------  

 

He doesn’t pay much attention to Tarnis when they first meet in the Senate tower; the human is collected and calm, the Force settling around him in mostly neutral waves.  It’s slightly brighter than one might expect from such bland emotions, but that’s easily explained by the grave situation or a latent Force sensitivity.

When they meet again in the saturated ruins of the old Jedi Temple ( _echoes upon echoes of pain and fear and bloodlust and death stir around him with every step until he must stop and meditate just to see the present again_ ), Tarnis's true nature is in full sight.  He isn’t Bengel’s darkened silhouette, nor is he the volatile energy of the Flesh Raider – Tarnis is pride and determination and triumph and under his command the Force throbs like a beating heart. 

The dark side permeates the room, its power brilliant with the strength of Tarnis’s passions, and he finally understands why his people say the Sith shine as brightly as any Jedi.

 

\------- 

 

Kira is an interesting mixture of curious and embarrassed, the colors of her emotions dancing in twitches and short, stunted bursts ( _her shields have lowered – this is the first time he’s seen her so clearly_ ).  She’s sitting in what looks like a very uncomfortable position, arms and legs crossed tightly like she’s trying to tie herself in a knot, and she still hasn’t touched the pastry in front of her.

“So, I’ve been wondering… what do objects look like to you?  Can you see them?”

He studies his hands, which are wrapped around a cup of tea.  The space between his palms is still, a muted outline and a stark contrast to the brightness of his fingers, though it does shimmer slightly to indicate the location of a hot and potentially harmful substance.  Objects have no life for him to truly see ( _unless they are T7-01, who’s currently a cheerful presence outside the door, but then again Teeseven seems to be an exception to everything_ ).

“They are there, but they’re not  _there_ ,” he says slowly, trying to describe it in a way that’s easily understandable ( _how do you describe sight to someone who can’t see?)_.

Kira’s emotions shrink and hover around her in discomfort.

“There but not there.  Right,” she sighs, shuffling around in her seat.  “Are you saying they’re basically transparent?  Is that why you can see through your blindfold and those metal glasses?”

“I see through those because they’re specifically made for that purpose, but in general an object’s transparency would depend on how much the Force flows through it – the more there is, the more I can see.  Objects made from organic materials are much better conduits than ones that are synthetic or otherwise inorganic.”

“I guess that makes sense.  And here I thought you walked around seeing everyone naked,” Kira laughs, all tension disappearing as she uncrosses her limbs and stretches. “Just remind me to check the materials of any new clothes I buy.  But if things made from synthetic materials are see through – hey, if someone’s wearing nothing but fully inorganic armor can you see right through it?”

He remembers a faint memory of himself as a small child giggling at a guard’s funny haircut and nonplussed expression, not realizing he wasn’t ‘supposed’ to see through the plastisteel helmet covering the man’s head.

“I can, though people get nervous when they find out so I normally pretend otherwise,” he looks around the bridge of his new ship with a wry smile.  “That’s also why I bought all those buckets of plant-based paint.  I didn’t think you’d enjoy traveling with someone who can look through every wall on the ship.”

“Yeeeeah, good call.  C'mon, let's give this place a new paint job.  We'll start with my room and the refresher.”

 

\------- 

 

When they arrive on Nar Shaddaa he scrapes together some extra credits to make some modifications to the ship’s holoterminal.  Most holos don’t appear in his vision and even after so many years in the Republic he still feels strange talking to an empty patch of air.  The Smuggler’s Moon doesn’t exactly specialize in Miraluka necessities but it does have the best holo market this side of the galaxy; he’s confident he can find something useful.

In a testament to the quality of Nar Shaddaa’s holos there’s apparently a local subculture where people walk around wearing nothing but a holoprojector that projects clothes onto their bodies.  He discovers this by accident when he exits the spaceport just in time to see a particularly large group of holo-nudists disembark from their shuttle.

 

\------- 

 

Master Orgus… is dead? 

He doesn’t feel anything, there’s no indication of a broken bond, but he’s never been bonded to Master Orgus the same way Kira has a bond with Master Kiwiiks.  They weren’t Master and Padawan for very long so maybe there’s no bond at all but if there  _is_  a bond and he hasn’t felt anything, Master Orgus might still be alive and well ( _o_ _r alive and critically injured_ ) – 

 _There is no emotion.  There is peace._  

He takes a deep breath and slowly exhales.  Lingering on what-ifs won’t do him any good.  All around him the Force settles and the world slowly clears as he acknowledges and releases his emotions.

But there’s still something wrong.  It hovers on the edges of his vision, a faint shimmer that’s almost a sign of danger, but Kira doesn’t seem to notice anything unusual and she can normally sense the Force’s disturbances even if she can’t see them.

Kira grabs his elbow and squeezes it gently; Teeseven nudges at his hand and silently vibrates like a purring nexu.  He’s grateful for their support, he really is, but there's something wrong and they can’t  _see..._

The world  _surges_ , a blast of  _warning_  that blinds him for just one brief moment, and Count Alde vanishes into the Force.

 

\------- 

 

The world surges and he throws himself aside.  His shoulder collides painfully with the metal grating and he's dizzy from the sudden perspective change but he's alive, he's alive and there's a tiny hole seared into the floor where he’d been standing.  There's a twitch in the area below the balcony, a patch of air colored faintly with surprise, and he leaps forward to smash the Sith’s concealment with a single blow.

He is the first and last person to successfully dodge the Death Mark.  It’s a hollow achievement.

 

\-------  

 

“Kira?  Are you busy?”

She turns to look at him ( _he’s never quite understood how eyes work but constantly readjusting to position two small orbs seems inconvenient, maybe that’s why they see the whole but miss so many details_ ), glowing faintly with warmth and happiness and a well-hidden desire that first appeared on Coruscant but only grows with each day ( _they are Jedi; he pretends he doesn’t notice and tries to ignore it just as he ignores his own—ignoring ignoring ignoring_ ).  “Nah, just finishing up a few upgrades to the navicomputer.  So what planet are we saving this time?”

“It’s nothing like that.  Not right now, anyway,” he smiles ( _they come naturally now but lately he finds it’s easiest to smile around Kira – no, not thinking about that_ ) and wonders how Kira would view him through the lens of the Force, where expressions aren’t limited to the physical realm.  “Do you want to learn how to see?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this turned out more angsty than I expected...

A gauntleted hand holds his face up by the chin and Scourge examines him, eyes lingering over the bare skin above his nose that’s normally covered for the sake of social etiquette _(no, just Republic etiquette – here in the Empire he has no need to hide, and in any case his mask had been destroyed along with most of what he’d been wearing as a Jedi)_. 

“Tell me, Acolyte,” Scourge says the title with deliberate emphasis, enunciating each syllable with careful precision. “What do you see when you look at me?”

“Power, my lord.  Power and contradictions.”  The dark side flows through Scourge and shrouds him like it does the Emperor.  But where the Emperor is a breathing void, an inscrutable presence, Scourge is an unyielding shadow marked by a dearth of emotions and the scars of an intense pain.  

As a Jedi, the sight had disturbed him. 

He is no longer a Jedi.

Scourge’s mouth twists into a strange smile and his chin is suddenly released; Scourge steps away and nods at the dark armor laid out nearby.  There is no mask or any other headgear that might cover the top half of his face.

“Get dressed.  It is time you begin your duties now that you are healed.”

\------- 

 

He excuses himself once the ship enters hyperspace, trying not to notice the others’ concern as he retreats to his room.  It doesn’t matter that he can’t remember what he’s done – the corruption of the dark side is not easily ignored, written as it is on both his lightsaber and himself _(memories of pride and temptation and power crawl beneath his skin and threaten to burst through the cracks of his hastily reconstructed identity)_.

For once he’s glad his friends all have eyes – somehow they cannot see what he’s done, what he’d been twisted into.  But their worry for him stings more than any sense of betrayal or anger; the latter, at least, he knows he deserves. 

It doesn’t help that Scourge sometimes looks at him so expectantly, as though waiting for something no one else knows is there.

\------- 

 

After the Council meeting he retraces the road he took as a Padawan _(a Jedi shouldn’t envy anyone, especially not their younger self; it’s just another reminder of how far he’s fallen)_ and sets out to the Forge.  His new lightsaber looks and feels unfamiliar but there are no stains on this one and that’s all that matters.

His old lightsaber is locked away in a chest that he stows in his room.  One day he might have the strength to destroy it but for now it’ll serve as a reminder _(for what, he’s not entirely sure)_.

\------- 

 

“The ship repairs are finished, Master Jedi,” Rusk says, then proceeds to rattle off numbers and percentages from a datapad.  “Knight Carson’s downloading the coordinates now and the cargo hold’s been converted into quarters for the Sith.  We’ll be ready to launch once refueling is completed.”

“Thank you,” he attempts a smile that feels flat even to him.  “Rusk, you know you’re welcome to call me by my name.  There’s no need for all this Master Jedi stuff.”

There’s a long pause.  Then Rusk puts away his datapad. 

“With all due respect, Master Jedi,” Rusk places a slight emphasis on the last two words, just enough to make them stand out.  Determination and concern and an almost frightening sense of loyalty color him in steady patterns, his emotions every bit as steadfast as he is.  “I completely disagree.  What happened on that space station makes you no less deserving of that title.  On the contrary, I can think of no one who deserves it more.”

“I… uh,” he winces at how unsteady his voice sounds _(with most other species such a tremor usually ushers in a deluge of water from both eyes, something he’s always found horrifying; here, at least, he’s afforded some mercy)_.  “I do appreciate your sentiment, but I am... What the Emperor made me do… What I did… You can’t see it.”

His voice grows almost plaintive, begging Rusk to see the stains on him which won’t go away no matter how much he showers.  Perhaps they will fade with time and penance, but time is not something he has.

“I can't," Rusk agrees.  “What I do see is a man who braved snowstorms, subzero temperatures, and overwhelming enemy numbers to help some no-name soldiers who aren’t even SpecForce.  I see a man who is hurt and scared and still charging back to the front lines, to the _same enemy_ , because that’s his duty to the Republic and to the galaxy.  I won’t pretend to know anything about what you see or what you’ve been through.  But if the man _I_ see doesn’t deserve to be called Master Jedi, _Master Jedi_ , I will hand in my resignation.”

“Rusk… I…” He almost wishes he can cry now _(maybe if he had eyes he wouldn’t see so much)_ , if only to have an excuse to duck his head and compose his expression.  “Thank you,” he says instead, because it’s obvious Rusk genuinely believes in him.

He can only do his best to earn that belief.

\------- 

 

He’s wondering how to get Scourge through the Belsavis orbital station with minimum chaos when the subject of his thoughts interrupts his musing.

“Tell me, Jedi,” Scourge says, eyes fixed unwaveringly on the strips of synthetic cloth wrapped around his face.  He hasn’t had time to find a new mask and the metal shades are uncomfortable if worn for long periods of time.  “What do you see when you look at me?”

The dark side flows through Scourge and shrouds him like it does the Emperor.  But where the Emperor is a breathing void, an inscrutable presence, Scourge is an unyielding shadow marked by a dearth of emotion and the scars of an intense pain.  When he looks at Scourge it’s as though he’s back inside that fortress, that fortress where the Emperor’s presence is woven into the Force itself, and he doesn’t answer for a long moment as he wonders how to explain.

“I see the Emperor,” is what he finally says.  “I see pain, and I see nothing.”

Then he sees a flicker of surprise that is quickly replaced by something almost like pride.  Scourge regards him with a thoughtful expression, then simply nods and walks away.

_(In the end he rips apart some of his and Kira’s spare clothes and refashions them into a set of Jedi robes for Lord Scourge.)_

_(Scourge is not amused.)_

_\-------_

 

Sel-Makor is not like the Emperor.  Sel-Makor is a malevolent being of twisted evil, emotional in a way the Emperor was not _(Sith are defined by their emotions, or at least that’s what he’d been taught; perhaps there’d been something tampering with his vision, but in the Emperor he saw no emotion at all)_ , and the sibilant voice twining through his mind is easy to dispel.

Tala-Reh is anticipation and determination mixed with barely visible fear when she steps forward, her feet steady as she approaches the chasm _(he’s not sure he could’ve done the same, at least not without being overwhelmed by the memories of sheer agony that even now linger at the edges of his vision)_.  They bear witness in silence; Rusk salutes Tala-Reh as she passes, Doc nods at her with an uncharacteristically solemn expression, and Kira clasps her hands and bows in the Order’s most respectful farewell.

And Scourge is watching him, both emotions and physical expression as unreadable as ever.

He doesn’t bother trying.  Scourge is hard to see even in the clearest, untainted places and here the dark side is everywhere _(this is the dark side he’s familiar with, beautiful and brilliant and not the complete nothingness that is the Emperor; that he’s familiar with any part of the dark side at all probably says a lot about how he is as a Jedi)_.  Instead he looks into the shining depths of the Dark Heart and watches until both Tala-Reh and Sel-Makor disappear into the Force.

\------- 

 

“The Emperor’s thoughts were with me for a long time,” Master Braga says softly.  “But I broke free – and when I did, my eyes were open.  I have seen such horrors.  That these things are allowed to exist… it has to end.  Here.  Now.  You of all people must understand – your species, and you in particular, have always seen so much more than most.”

“And my species paid for it,” he replies, just as soft.  The disaster of Katarr is a story all Miraluka know – to this day they have no permanent colonies outside the Alpheridies system and even the staunchest Republic supporters think twice before allowing large groups of Jedi to convene on their territory.  “As have I. It is as you say, Master Braga – we see more than most.  But that only means we know what will be lost if it all ends.”

\------- 

 

The Dark Temple is… aptly named, to put it mildly.  The dead laugh and claw at him, steeped in a darkness that laps hungrily at his light, and he swings at them a few times before realizing they’re not in the physical plane.

<Jedi = ok?>

“I’m fine,” Or as fine as he can be, inside a haunted temple on Dromund Kaas with his friends fighting off waves of reinforcements and the Emperor waiting patiently for him to approach.  He takes a deep breath and tries to think of Master Satele and Master Orgus, of Rusk and Doc and Kira and Scourge and the trust _(responsibility, a small voice whispers – burden; he quickly shoves the thought away)_ they all placed on him.  “Let’s go.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter! Sorry about the wait, I hit a bit of a writer's block about halfway through. Vitiate might be a little ooc since I tried, probably unsuccessfully, to reconcile him with Valky.

“Well done,” Vitiate says, aglow with a strange sense of satisfaction.  Then he… vanishes, dissipates away, and the dark, foreboding Emperor is suddenly a wide-eyed Jedi gasping for breath.

He almost drops his lightsaber in his rush to reach the man, fumbling for the wound with one hand and pulling out a medpac with the other as he tries to heal what he can _(he’s already killed so many Jedi on Yavin 4 – there is no time for diplomacy in the midst of battle)_.  But the man’s life is already ebbing around his fingers, erratic with fear and confusion and guilt and relief.

“F-finally… he… is gone,” the Jedi whispers.  A moment later he fades into the Force.

 

\------- 

 

_“You discern merely a fraction of reality,” Vitiate’s unblinking eyes stare up at him.  “Time and time again you refuse see the truth laid out before you.  I will not be contained.  I cannot be redeemed.  Death is all that remains, and you will not kill me.”_

_He does not want to kill Vitiate.  The Emperor lies defeated in front of him.  To kill a downed enemy is to violate the Jedi Code in one of the grossest ways possible, and in any case the Emperor’s life is already slowly fading away._

_But the alternative is unthinkable.  It is a risk he cannot take._

_He raises his hand._

\------- 

 

“You shouldn’t be here.”

He doesn’t know what to think of Lana Beniko.  The dark side permeates her like it does all Sith, but she is easier to look at than her peers – easier to see and understand _(or perhaps it is merely a matter of familiarity since, aside from Lord Scourge, she is the only Sith he’s known so long without killing or reforming them – he’s not sure if that says more about her or him)_. 

If she is anyone else perhaps he’ll call her a friend after everything they’ve been through, but she is not anyone else.  Lana is Sith and very dangerous.  Their loyalties ultimately lie on opposite sides – it is a fact he must never forget.

He can’t help but notice how she relaxes upon seeing him _(her normally impeccable shields are strained, leaking wariness and stress and uncertainty and fear)_ and how there is little conviction behind her words. 

“I shouldn’t,” he replies.  “But I am.  What will you do?”

The uncertainty vanishes, replaced by a surprisingly strong flicker of hope as Lana turns off her lightsaber and begins to summarize the situation.  He tries not to read into it too much – the dark side is deceptive, and the Sith who use it are even more so.

He still gives Lana a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder as they prepare to part ways, silently confirming his intention to help no matter their differences.  She nods at him curtly, her expression strained, but in the Force her relief is clear to see.

 

\------- 

 

Theron and Master Surro are long gone when he finally returns to Ziost’s abandoned orbital station, mouth dry after hours of shouting orders in an Imperial accent.  As much as Imperial civilians feared the Republic fleet, they feared the wrath of a Sith even more – one glance at his lightsaber and mask _(brand new, it had dropped from the bag of a possessed Sith; the only taint on it was that of its original owner’s death – at his hands)_ had been all the persuasion they needed to run from the shelters and towards the evacuation points.  The deception weighs heavily on him, but few Imperials would willingly listen to an alien Jedi even when their planet isn’t being invaded by Republic forces.

“About time!  We were just getting ready for a search-and-rescue,” Doc jumps out of his chair, Teeseven whirring happily beside him.  “Com signals fizzled out a while ago, right around the time your spy friend ran by with a Jedi.”

“Are they alright?”

“Shan was a bit bruised up but fine, can’t say the Jedi looked too good though,” Doc shrugs, looking nonchalant, but the worried air around him thickens.  “I offered to have a look but they hustled out of here. Said the sooner they got to Tython the better.”

“Master Surro’s condition isn’t something you could’ve helped with,” he says apologetically.  “I’m sorry, I should’ve gotten in touch – you could’ve gone with them, there was no need to wait for me.”

“Yeeeah, I’ll be the judge of that,” Doc points at a set of doors off to the side.  “Checkup time.  Med bay’s through there, c’mon.”

“I don’t–”

“ _Checkup time_ , doctor’s orders,” Doc grabs his arm and pulls him towards the doors.  “Say what you want about the Imps, but they definitely know how to stock up a med bay.  Never look free equipment in the bolts, you know?”

“Um, actually, if this is medical equipment…”

“Alright alright, bad analogy.  Don’t worry, I checked, everything’s clean and top-notch and there’s no nasty anti-Jedi traps lurking around.  Trust me, I’m an expert.”

He smiles and opens his mouth to ask how, exactly, did Doc become an expert in anti-Jedi traps. 

The universe flickers.

The Force screams.

He stumbles and falls, barely noticing Doc’s panicked yells and T7’s frantic beeping as his vision fills with fear and horror, an instinctive horror born from something dark and unnatural that emanates from nothing and from everything.  Impressions of Ziost dart through the haze, bursts of clarity in a thick fog _(RUN, the Force urges; RUN OR YOU ARE LOST)_ , and the Emperor’s voice _(it is familiar, terrifyingly familiar, and follows him no matter how much he backs away)_ brushes against his ear – a fleeting laugh, soft but still distinct amongst the chaos.

 

\------- 

 

He returns to the station a few weeks and countless medical inspections later to watch as Republic forces prepare an expeditionary force to investigate the planet’s surface.  Many of them recognize him, and even those who do not turn to him with hope.

“Master Jedi!  Will you be coming with us?”

He shakes his head, Vitiate’s voice still ringing in his ears.  The soldiers and scientists talk about a dead planet, gray and forlorn – but when he looks out the window to where Ziost once was, all he can see is empty space.

 


End file.
